


Resonance

by nothinbuttherain



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6344728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinbuttherain/pseuds/nothinbuttherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Raven can’t sleep and heads to the bar to retrieve her tools, thinking to at least distract herself. While there she runs into Roan playing the old piano they have there, attempting to do the same thing and the two of them find they have more in common than they first thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resonance

Resonance 

Pacing. That’s what she used to do when she couldn’t sleep up on the Ark, she’d pace. Up and down the tiny cell she shared with her mother, and then with only herself. Up and down the deserted corridors, the guard’s schedules memorised to ensure she wouldn’t run in to any of them. Pacing had lost its appeal since her leg, since every step send pain screaming through her hip.

 Instead of pacing now she fixes things. Even if they don’t technically need to be fixed. Even if technically she’s just pulling them apart for the sake of doing something with her hands to keep her brain occupied for a few minutes, she fixes things. That’s what she’s trying to do now but it’s difficult without the box of tools she’s sure she left in the bar area.

Glancing at her bed and briefly getting into it and contemplating sleeping she quickly gives up and decides that she’ll just go and get her damn tools, no-one will be there anyway, they won’t have to see the stabs of pain she keeps trying to hide.

Grabbing up her jacket she shrugs it on and limps out of her chambers, along the corridor of the Ark and outside. It’s freezing, her breath mists in the air like smoke, drifting up to be claimed by the endless expanse of the black heavens above, and she tugs the jacket more tightly around herself as she limps towards the hanger they’re using as a bar.

As she gets nearer however she’s slightly startled by the sound of music that she hears coming from inside. Pausing outside she stops to listen. Someone is playing the piano that they have stashed in there, and playing it more beautifully than she’s heard before.

Growing up on the Ark didn’t provide an abundance of music or musical instrument lessons and she had never thought she cared much for it, but this...This is enthralling, this is something she could lose herself in, and understand the appeal of getting lost in it too. She stands there for almost a full minute, swaying slightly, her body instinctively drawn in to the pulses and rhythms and pulls of the music. Then she manages to give herself a little shake and remind herself why she came.

She doesn’t want to disturb whoever’s playing; if they’re out this late they clearly don’t want company anymore than she does. But she didn’t drag her stupid dead leg over here in the middle of the freezing night for nothing. Her tool kit, as far as she can remember, is on the far side of the bar, the furthest away from the piano. If she’s quiet and careful she should be able to slip in, grab it, and get out without whoever is playing spotting her.

Now decided on her course of action she eases the door open, silently blessing whoever thought to oil the hinges recently so that it doesn’t make a sound and begins to limp laboriously across the edge of the room towards her work table. It’s not technically _her_ work table but all of her things are spread out upon it and no-one has dared move them yet so for all intents and purposes it definitely is hers.

As she edges around the room she can’t help but glance over at the piano, curiosity drawing her eyes towards it, wanting to know who it is. She freezes mid stride, in the no-man’s land between the door and her table as she recognises the broad shoulders and long hair of Roan. It strikes her as odd that the king of Azgeda should be sitting in the middle of an empty bar playing piano at nearly two o’clock in the morning but that’s his business. And he’s always struck her as a somewhat odd king anyway so she supposes this fits.

Turning, intending to continue her slow, painful shuffle towards her work desk she once again finds herself stopped, as though someone has frozen the air around her, frozen time itself to hold her in place while the rest of the world moves around her. And the rest of the world is rapidly shrinking to the sliver of it that contains Roan and that piano.

There’s something strangely mesmerizing in the way he moves, the ripple and pulse of the muscles in his back as he works the pedals and keys to create the sound that swells through the room like the breathing of a long slumbering beast that he’s managed to awaken with his body and his soul and she can’t help but be transfixed by him.

Forcing herself to take a few steps on, still fixed on him even as she does so, she realises that his eyes are closed and she has the suspicion that she could have ran across the room, were she still capable of that, and slammed the door upon entering and leaving and it wouldn’t have interrupted him. That thought resonates within her at a pitch that startles her for a moment because she recognises his intensity and the depth to which he can lose himself in this because she does the same thing with her work, picking this and that together, trying to find out how it works and then piecing it together again.

 When she does that the rest of the world might as well not exist and so she does it when she wants to escape from the rest of the world, to forget about the wars and the death and the pain in her damn leg for just a little while. And she barely knows this man, he’s practically a stranger to her, and his music and her mechanics have almost nothing in common at all...but she can’t help but feel a strange connection to him, if only for the fact that they were both drawn to this place at the same time tonight seeking distractions for whatever was preying on their minds.

Pulling away from whatever she senses brewing in the spaces between them she turns her attention back to the reason she’s here in the first place and hobbles towards her work table. Reaching out she begins scooping up her tools and shoving them into the box in no apparent order, trying to be quick but quiet. One of the screwdrivers slips from her fingers and she automatically lurches down to catch it out of instinct without thinking.

Pain, blinding, numbing, heart-stopping pain lances through her hip like a bullet ripping through the skin and muscle, burying deep into the nerves and exploding where it hits. Unable to stop herself she cries out and, just to complete the sorry picture, manages to drag the overflowing box of tools down with her. She winces at the clattering crash that reverberates around the room as the metal instruments of her craft scatter themselves, skidding across the floor in a din loud enough to wake the dead.

At the piano in front of her Roan jumps as though he’s been branded and produces a long, lethal looking sword from nowhere, which he lowers as soon as his sharp eyes find her. Abandoning the weapon he hurries towards her where she lies panting on the ground, already able to feel her face burning with humiliation. She wants to snap at him to leave her alone but her leg is cramping so badly that she knows if left to her own devices she’ll be on this damn floor ‘til the spring comes. She has her pride but she’s not stupid and so she allows him to reach down and offer her a strong arm which she manages to use to haul herself to her feet then lets him lower her into the chair beside her desk to recover.

 Without a word to her he silently crouches down again and begins gathering up the fallen tools, gazing up at her as he asks quietly, “Are you alright? I can find Abby if-“

“No,” she says at once, more sharply than she intended, another spasm of pain in her hip jolting through her at the same moment as her embarrassment at being caught like this, and by him, and the thought of sending a king running off to get Abby for her is too much for her to grasp, “No, I’m good, really,” she says, forcing the words out past gritted teeth in an admirable show of bravado that she doesn’t think fools him for a second.

To her surprise however he doesn’t attempt to insist or protest further, he just accepts her assurances and returns to what he was doing, gathering up her fallen tools, examining some of the more intricate ones as he picks them up. She watches him in the same way she had before, unable to look away from him, but struck this time by his kindness.

“Thanks,” she mumbles as he places the box on the table beside her, still able to feel the heat in her cheeks even though he’s doing a pretty good job of not making her feel like a complete idiot, “You can go back to your playing,” she tells him, jerking her head back towards the piano, “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to interrupt.”

To her surprise he greets this comment by colouring up slightly himself, which she thinks is absurd, but when he answers her it’s in the same deep, steady voice as usual, with all the composure she expects from him, one of the few things she thinks is truly regal about him, “It’s alright,” glancing down at her he asks evenly, “What are you doing here?”

Shrugging and shakily propping herself up on the desk behind her she gingerly tests her weight on her leg as she does so, wondering if it will support her. Out of the corner of her eye she spots Roan move half a pace towards her, ready to catch her to stop her from falling and injuring herself again, relaxing back into his previous stance as though he had never moved a moment later when she lowers herself back into the chair, deciding to give it a minute or two more. But she had noticed the gesture and the fact that he had done his utmost to avoid coddling her or making her feel acutely aware of her injury.

Looking up at him again and motioning vaguely, a gesture he interprets correctly and drags a chair over to sit beside her so he isn’t towering over her while she tries to make small talk, she says, “I couldn’t sleep. I came here looking for a distraction.”

Something shifts in the depths of his eyes which, despite their paleness and piercing quality, darken and withdraw and his voice lowers further in both pitch and volume when he says without meeting her gaze for the first time, “No, nor could I.”

His tone catches on her attention and she remembers with a sudden jolt about the news that had filtered into Arkadia earlier that day. Since the failed coup his mother had tried to instigate the clans had descended into a war, the coalition she had worked so hard splintering into chaos and civil war with some clans wishing to remain bound by it and the rest wishing to be separate and individual powers once again. In the war that had torn the land apart almost a hundred of his people, not all of them warriors, some of them almost certainly known to him, had been slaughtered in the ensuing violence.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, knowing how hollow those words are, how little impact they’ll have on him, how little impact they’ve had on her in the past when anyone has ever tried to console her over a loss with them, but now in the other position she appreciates how hard it is to find something meaningful to say that can possibly make a dent in his grief and pain, “You want to talk?” she offers softly.

Out of some deep instinct she can’t locate or understand she finds herself reaching out to him the tips of her fingers only just brushing his, feeling the rough calluses on both of their hands, hers from her work, his from swordplay, catch and grate against one another. It’s a strangely comforting feeling but she still snatches her hand back when he lets his penetrating blue eyes meet hers again, worrying she’s been presumptuous.

But though he answers her with, “No,” brusque but not cold or unkind, he extends his hand back to her, tentative even though she started this, and lets his rough skin ghost against hers in a way that suggests it’s been years since he’s touched another person in this way and that right now he needs it, “I want to forget it,” he adds, with an air of not quite knowing why he’s telling her that, other than the fact that he needed to tell someone and she’s here and her skin is warm against his and neither of them can look away and break the almost magnetic connection that she feels pulsing and straining between them whenever his eyes meet hers.

“Is that why...” she says, trailing off and jerks her head towards the piano as an end to that sentence.

He nods, his eyes flickering towards it as well before they reconnect with hers and he studies her for a moment before he asks, “Do you play?”

She snorts derisively at this suggestion, “Yeah right,” she says sardonically, shaking her head, then, catching his expression she adds, “I liked listening to you play though,” she doesn’t quite know why she admits it to him but it makes him smile and causes a faint flush to creep into his cheeks again.

Shifting slightly on her chair, no longer in pain but now simply enjoying his company, which is a somewhat alien feeling after spending months pushing the world and its people away, she studies him as he had studied her a moment ago then says with a wry smile, “So, tell me, when exactly does a king manage to find time to learn how to play piano?”

His lips tug into a broader smile in response to that, “I learned when I was younger,” he explains simply to her, leaning back in his chair, clearly at his ease with her, “A prince has a little more time than a king, especially in the winter when we’re forced to spend more time confined inside because of the cold and the conditions.”

“I would have thought you’d have more important things to do,” she says, allowing the faintest note of teasing to enter into her voice, “Learning a hundred and one different ways to kill people for instance.”

Fortunately he notes her tone and rewards her with another thin-lipped smile before he replies with a keen edge to his voice, “I did,” then he settles back just as the growl in his voice began making something come undone within her and continues in his usual low rasp, “I learned the arts of war as I was expected to, I attended council meetings, I was tutored in the various disciplines expected of me. But I wanted to learn how to play for myself,” he tells her, his voice even and pleasant to listen to, and she finds herself thinking that she could easily sit here all night with him, another wry smile catches at his lips and he says, “and, my mother didn’t approve of my learning to play.”

“Ah,” Raven says, grinning broadly at him, “Let me guess,” she says, still smirking, “After that it became your heart’s desire?”

“Something like that,” he agrees mildly, meeting her eyes and smiling too, “We made a deal, I kept attending all of the lessons she expected me to attend and excelling in each of them, she didn’t have all of the piano tutors in the city rounded up and executed.”

In spite of herself she lets out a faint hiss of laughter, “She sounds like a real charmer,” she observes without thinking.

Something in his face tightens for just a moment but his voice is dry and his face expressionless and impossible to read when he says, “Quite.”

Taking a deep breath he clears the air between them with apparent ease, “Now, as king, I make time for it,” he informs her, in a tone that suggests that people have attempted to stop him making time for it in the past and regretted it. His voice softens again and he seems to withdraw from her a little, his eyes becoming shadowed and haunted once more as he adds, “Especially after something like this happens,” he swallows and she finds her fingers lightly, cautiously, squeezing his, “It helps.”

Before she can stop herself, before she understands why she’s saying it or what she hopes to get out of it, she blurts, “Would you play something for me?”

He looks up at her, his eyes sharp and intense, giving her the feeling as though he can see past skin and muscle and bones straight through to the blackened, fragile soul she tries so hard to shelter from everyone and she feels suddenly invasive, as though by asking him she’s intruded on something incredibly private and personal. She remembers the look in his eyes when she had mentioned hearing him play, how he had shut himself up here quite alone in the early hours of the morning without so much as a guard outside, how he had said it helped him deal with things that no-one should ever have to deal with and it suddenly feels like a stupid, insensitive and invasive thing to have said to him.

Perhaps that’s why she senses a certain weight to his light words when he replies evenly, “Of course.”

The answer surprises but pleases her and she lets him offer her a hand up out of her chair and then allows her to grip onto his arm as they walk across the room, her leg no longer as painful but still stiff and awkward after her fall then remains standing so she can brace herself against his strong, solid stance to help lower her into the bench in front of the piano. He sits down beside her with far more grace than she had displayed, a certain type of feline preciseness and elegance in his movements.

Glancing sideways at her, almost as though he’s afraid of this most intimate part of him being judged by her, he hastily looks away once more when she nudges coaxingly against him. Taking a deep breath he lays his fingers gently on top of the keys before them and begins to play. The melody he chooses starts off slow and stately, long, held notes that reverberate around the cavernous space that envelopes them but under his encouraging hands it rises and swells and becomes faster and louder, a constant crescendo of intensity that seems to echo through the forgotten empty hollows of her heart. It anchors and grounds her, to her surroundings, to him, to herself, but at the same time takes her away from it and carries her like a leaf on the back of a soft breath of wind, makes her soul feel weightless and free.

She’s heard people play this piano before, had it thrum away in the background, simply existing alongside her while she does whatever it is she was doing at the time but this...She never knew something could have this effect on her without ever touching her or speaking to her in any kind of language she can understand.

His fingers fly and dance across the keys before them, so fast she can barely keep track of them and the fantastic shapes they arch and pulse in to, as effortless as breathing, as thoughtless as the pounding of her heart they follow the precise beat and rhythm he commands them to. The music seems to have a life of her own, it breathes and moves and dances in the air around them like it thinks and feels even as though do, like it’s responding to Roan, listening to him and answering him, as though it’s leading him as surely as he’s leading it.

When he finally stops and lets the song trail away into nothingness the silence that descends over them is unlike anything she’s ever felt before, as though some piece of her is missing, as though the music has stolen something from her, or that it filled a part of her she never knew existed but now the gaping emptiness where it ought to be feels like a lost tooth, a hole that she can’t stop probing and examining and wishing to fill.

“Show me,” she breathes, her voice lower and thicker than usual, he looks down at her, a question sparkling in those eyes and she gestures towards the keys again and whispers once more, “Show me.”

This time he understands and wordlessly nudges her until she’s sitting squarely in front of him with him behind her, his arms curving around her body, his chest solid and warm braced squarely against her back. Smirking slightly she enquires, “Is this the usual teaching method for beginner piano lessons then?”

Leaning in until his breath rasps against the back of her neck he murmurs, “It’s my method,” and she shivers at the closeness and the fact that his voice has seemed to lower an octave, “Do you have a problem with it?”

“None whatsoever,” she replies brightly, something she was quite sure he was perfectly aware of, or else he would never have dared to do this in the first place.

“Put your hands on the keys in front of you,” he commands her, looking over her shoulder so he can see what she’s doing. She obeys, feeling rather foolish not knowing what she’s doing but she trusts him to get there in due course. Leaning around her he carefully arches and shapes her hands until her fingers rest the way they should on the keys, then he tells her the names of the notes, though he says they’re not important for her to know now, he’s only going to teach her a few simple chords and patterns.

She absorbs everything she tells him, fascinated by this, trying to remember all of it at once in a way that seems to please him. He has her practice lifting her hands and then replacing them properly on the keys before he reaches for her again and gently coaxes her fingers onto the proper keys, his skin rough and hot against hers.

She swallows and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath that catches as soon as she realises her expanding body is being pressed flush against his as a result but he doesn’t react and barely seems to notice, he just continues with his lesson, telling her the name of the chord she’s producing then he instructs her to play it. She does as she’s told, plunging her fingers into the keys and sending them all the way down to the base of the piano creating a surprisingly loud din in the room that makes her jump.

The laughter that bursts from him afterwards is rough and rasping like his voice but she likes it, particularly because of their proximity it means she can feel it vibrating in his chest and then echoing through her body as a result.

“What?” she demands grumpily, twisting around to glower at him, “I did what you said.”

“So you did,” he replies, seeming to sober up immediately but she can still catch the glimmer of amusement dancing in his blue eyes and it’s with difficulty that she restrains herself from stamping on his foot that’s resting just beside hers, very easily within range.

“Do it gently,” he instructs, taking his fingers and touching them to her bare arm to show her and give her an idea of the pressure that’s needed, “It doesn’t need to be that hard, imagine it like touching a lover, soft, intimate,” he reaches around her and strokes his fingers against a cluster of keys near the left end of the piano causing a deep note to reverberate through her but she barely notices it, too focused on her body’s response to his analogy, thinking of the way he had just touched her arm with new significance.

Twisting in place again she turns to look back at him and finds something stirring in his eyes, something hot and loaded at odds with the cold, reserved gaze she’s used to. She lets her gaze linger, quite forgetting the lesson they’re supposed to be having, unable to stop herself looking at him.

She’s only recalled to herself when he jostles lightly against her and says, “Again. Go on,” he coaxes and she turns back to the piano, tongue between her teeth and tries again, being as deliberately gentle as she can be, trying to mimic his movements.

“Good,” he growls lightly in a way that sends another shiver along her spine and she’d tell him to stop doing that to her except she doesn’t want him to stop and the second flash that burns through her at his next words is even more welcome than the first, “Much better.”

Leaning around her, apparently oblivious of what he’s doing to her, he places his larger, scarred hand on top of hers and presses down her fingers with his own, causing the keys beneath them to depress and produce notes.  He starts off slowly, almost intimately, taking his time with her and demonstrating slowly and deliberately, murmuring the name of the note or notes as he presses down each key. Once he senses that she’s grasped the pattern he begins to press her fingers down a little faster and when she feels her fingers pressing down a fraction of a second before he coaxes them down and it’s then that he removes his hand, telling her to keep going on her own.

She manages for a little while before she loses the rhythm and it becomes erratic and disjointed but this doesn’t seem to put him off at all. “You’re a natural,” he murmurs in her ear, so close to her that she swears she can feel his lips moving against her.

 But just as before, when he knew exactly when to take his hands away and let her carry on without him, taking the subtle, almost imperceptible cues from her body that she was ready, he follows those seem instincts here, allowing himself to press closer to her, knowing that her body welcomes it, that her body craves it almost and he smiles when he feels her instinctively move back against him as though in response, trying to fit them even closer together.

“Again,” he says, his voice a little louder this time and even this causes a faint pulse to tremble through her, something like adrenaline slowly leaking into her veins and making her body shake ever so slightly.

Obediently, she places her fingers on the keys again and repeats the pattern he had taught her, slowing getting faster and faster as her confidence increases, “Keep it at that speed,” he interrupts her when she reaches a tempo she doesn’t think she can improve on any way and a moment later his arms snake beneath hers and his hands rest on the keys beside hers.

Slowly, falling in to her rhythm, letting her set the pace he begins to layer more complex melodies over her own, embellishing it and building upon it until she’s smiling at the music that’s beginning to swell around them again and a soft laugh manages to burst from her lips as their bodies sway in time, hands dancing across the keys before them.

After a few minutes or so he jostles lightly against her to get her attention, she looks back, faltering for a second but he growls, “Keep playing,” and she does, then he smiles wolfishly at her and whispers in her ear, “See if you can keep up.”

She opens her mouth to ask what he means but a moment later she understands as he begins to play his part faster, forcing her to speed up her part as well so that they continue to cohere and complement one another. He lets his leg tap out a rhythm, making sure it knocks against hers so she has a beat to anchor her and help her keep pace with him. A smile to mirror his tugs at her lips as she manages to keep up with him, her fingers already used to precise work and patterns from her work on the Ark as a mechanic manages to keep up with him and follows him when he eases off, making things slower again.

“Play softly,” he murmurs in her ear, his breath lightly stirring her hair and she does as he asks, letting herself sink into the steady rise and fall of the piece as they coax it out of the piano together and a sense of abandon flows through her as she follows his lead.

“Good, just like that,” he murmurs to her and she shivers, easing back against him, tilting her head back slightly to meet his eyes again.

She’s too busy looking up at him to notice straight away, but the loss in the richness and complexity of the melody makes itself known and understood a heartbeat later when she realises that one of his hands has dropped away from the keys and is resting on her thigh instead. A shiver races through her like electricity sparking through a wire and she turns to look up at him, his eyes as wide and hungry as hers must be and she uses the hand that isn’t still tapping out his melody on instinct now to grip his wrist and urge his fingers up higher to where she wants them.

He pauses on the waistband of her jeans, never breaking eye contact with her, both of them still instinctively playing their parts and waits until he sees her slow, deliberate nod before he lets his fingers deftly open up her jeans and slide into her underwear.

She arches against him as his fingers find a sensitive spot almost on instinct and a discordant groan issues from the piano as her hand slips. He pauses, a smile on his lips and he breathes softly in her ear, “I don’t think I told you to stop playing.”

She groans and curses him softly under her breath but the moment she forces her fingers into their pattern upon the keys once more, he allows his to begin teasing her, still carrying on his own part with apparent ease while she’s fighting to remain present enough to remember what she’s supposed to be doing.

“Good,” he murmurs quietly, his fingers pressing a little harder between her legs, a soft growl of approval rippling through his chest as he makes note of how wet he’s making her and of the fact she manages to keep up with him as he increases the pace of their playing by a fraction at the same time.

“Very good, Raven,” he purrs in her ear and the way he whispers her name, the way it sounds when it spills from his lips makes her feel more than the fingers that are still circling her, testing and trying different things with her, the tempo in one hand mimicking the other as he speeds up their playing once again, expecting her to follow suit.

As pleasure pulses more strongly through her however she feels herself arching against him, unable to stop the faint cry that bursts from her lips and unable to continue concentrating on the piano before her either. As she stops playing he stops winding her up and leans forwards to breathe, “Don’t stop,” in her ear again and she can practically taste the smile on his lips and the pleasure he’s taking in this.

Swallowing hard she takes her hand from the piano and loops her fingers around his wrist, trying to urge them between her legs again but he just huffs out a soft laugh that ripples through her and he chides in soft amusement, “No cheating,” as he gently guides her hand back to its place on the piano.

“Go on,” he coaxes and she would have turned around forced herself into his lap and kissed the stupid smile she can hear on his lips off his face until he did what she wanted but, as though he’s read this thought in her mind, he chooses that moment to lean forwards and softly begins kissing her neck from behind until she’s moaning against him.

Cursing him, both in her head and out loud until the words are swallowed up by the sound of the piano, she begins to play again as he had instructed and nearly stops again a heartbeat later when he allows his fingers to slide into her underwear once more. Whimpering she arches back against him and as though he can read what she needs in the way her face tightens in pleasure he speeds up, feeling her panting against him and nips softly at her neck with his teeth.

“Are you close?” he breathes softly to her, still nuzzling lightly at her neck.

It takes her a moment to answer, caught between indulging in his touch and the feelings he’s inspiring in her and fighting to keep playing, dimly aware that she’s falling further and further behind him, her rhythm becoming more and more erratic. But eventually she manages to gasp out, “Yes,” nodding her head against his shoulder for emphasis, and, before she can stop herself, she whimpers, “Please.”

He smiles against her skin and presses in even closer to her, taking his other hand from the piano to tangle it in her thick hair, tugging it out of the ponytail she has it bound it, letting it flow freely around her shoulders, allowing him to run his fingers through it. Relief floods her and she tugs her hand away from the piano as well but a rough chuckle shudders through him and he shakes his head, “I don’t remember telling you to stop playing,” he whispers in her ear, stopping again.

Growling like a feral animal she twists against him but he holds her firm, refusing to allow her to swap their positions and guides her hand back up to the piano keys, “You bastard,” she breathes, hand shaking now as she attempts his melody again, “Just finish it,” she begs him, her eyes clamping shut as he very gently begins circling her once more, “Come on,” she urges him, her whole body shaking, her eyes closed, barely aware of anything but the shaky, quavering notes still issuing from the piano and him, the scent of him thick on her tongue as she pants for breath, the feel of his body hard and hot against her, his rough, calloused fingers between her legs, “Come on, come on, please, please just-“

She doesn’t say any more than that because her body arches against him and her climax shudders through her and she reaches back, her hand scrabbling against thin air, desperate to find something to cling to and he reaches out and offers her his hand and she grips it tightly as she struggles to come back to herself, panting heavily, her whole body shaking and trembling as she slumps back against him.

When she manages to come back to herself somewhat again he’s smiling against her neck as he presses gentle kisses to it, his fingers still softly running through her hair while her chest heaves and she tries to remember her own damn name.

“That was-“ she manages to get out after a long moment, closing her eyes and swallowing hard before she can think of a suitable word to describe it.

“Intense?” he suggests quietly, his breath ghosting against her skin.

“Mm,” she agrees, the sound humming in her chest.

It takes another few minutes for her to realise that her blood is still running hot and thick and that she still wants him. Once she comes to that realisation she twists around against him, his hands instinctively sliding to her waist, cradling her to him and deftly helping her turn around to face him, guiding her legs down on either side of his hips, enabling her to straddle him, their bodies working in union the way their hands had done on the piano, comfortably and instinctively, as though they’ve been doing this for years.

Leaning in she kisses him, long and deep and hard, tangling her fingers through his long hair and tugging on it, wondering if she can make him break. She gets a soft growl from him and his fingers tighten at her hips, nails biting briefly into her skin and she grins into the kiss thinking that it’s going to be more than possible to make him beg and thinking even more that she’s going to enjoy that.

“Your turn,” she whispers in his ear, satisfied by the shiver that this inspires in him and she sits back a little, braced between him and the piano at her back that’s steadying her, a wicked grin stretching across her face that suggests she’s going to take her sweet time with him and is going to take altogether too much pleasure in tormenting him just as much as he tormented her.

****

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm still very new to this pairing but I had fun with this one, I hope you liked it, let me know either way.


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